The Accidental Musician
Aimee, over at Foxfire Eclectica, has an absolutely beautiful site. It appeals on a number of levels. The visuals are just stunning. Her choice of music is a haunting tune that matches the theme of the site perfectly. Geekwise, she has some neat toys: blogmap, tagboard, streaming audio, links to environmental webcams, and some other toys that I would love to play with, had I the time and bandwidth where I am. Her writing is first-rate. She conveys her personal thoughts, feelings, and memories vividly. She is going on my regular read list, if only because it is refreshing to get away from the rockets and exploding cow carcasses for a few minutes.

She has been waxing reminiscent as of late regarding musical experiences. It put me in a mood to recall a few of my own. One most significant one came completely by accident, thanks to my Mother and a particularly busy time of year.

She had four kids to raise, Mum did. We were, for the most part, your average little hellions, not in any inordinate amount of trouble, but we were not exactly cherubim, either. And at Christmastide, we were all the more rambunctious with the anticipation of treasures galore beneath the shrubbery in the Den. Mother did what she could to keep us under control, while still fostering the excitement of the season. It was in this context that the fateful mistake occurred.

We had always enjoyed music. No one in the home could strike a lick at a banjo, much less play a song that anyone would recognize, but we enjoyed listening. My primary music education, to that point, had been an AM pop radio station that played the same 40 songs until Casey Kasem gave them permission to change the list. I had heard of classical music, but my primary exposure to it was the opening 15 seconds of reruns of ?The Lone Ranger?. Folk songs were a staple of Elementary school music classes, so the works of Arlo Guthrie, Pete Seegar, and, surprisingly, Elvis Presley were in my knowledgebase, as were some of the great songs of the 1950?s. But that was the extent of my musical vocabulary. Now and then, Mother would bring home some LP record or music cassette or 8-track tape (now I?m really dating myself) from the discount rack at the department store, and this particular evening was one of those.

She thought she was bringing home Christmas music, and she thought the label said, ?Charlie Brown sings Christmas Songs?. What she actually had brought home was Please Come Home For Christmas, by the great blues composer and musician Charles Brown. You are most likely familiar with the title cut from the album, which has been covered by dozens of artist over the years. The link to the album has some streaming samples.

It was my first real taste of the blues. I didn?t quite know what to make of it at first. It was one of those milestones in a man?s life, like his first shot of whiskey, or his first love, or his first heartbreak. It was so foreign, partly because my parents had done such a fine job of parenting. This time of year was always full of light, and laughter, and joy. This man was not just singing blues songs, he was Singin? the Blues. He was belting out the deep down, sleepin? on the sidewalk, can?t win for losin?, my woman done left me, ain?t got nothin? but the shirt on my back and I?d sell that for a good stiff belt o? gin Blues. It felt bad, but it felt good. The words do not exist to describe it appropriately, in any language with which I have any familiarity. If you haven?t experienced it, you won?t be able to understand it, and if you have, then you are likely just nodding quietly to yourself.

So that accidental moment changed my entire life. Of course, I sounded cute trying to sing Blues in my childhood, and I sounded spoiled and arrogant trying to sing Blues in my early teens. Until you go through it, and come out the other side, blues is self-pity. Once you make it there, though, Blues is a reminder that it?s been worse, and you?ve made it through before. After a few heartbreaks, and a few hangovers, and a few layoffs, and a few episodes of getting back up off the ground with a boot print on my backside, I can now pull it off without sounding too stupid. And I owe it largely to Mum, and being too busy to read the label carefully.